The Poetry Marathon

Desperation

I sit alone in the darkness,

tossed in without a prompt

by those damned judges

in their fine black robes.

Fettered to the wall,

all I hear is the swish

as the pendulum drops.

Panic sets in as time ticks away.

Confusion clouds my brain.

I am in the depths of despair.

Crying, pleading, shrieking, flailing,

until I realize by the stench that

others have been here before me.

I grope the littered floor for any

scrap of paper and writing utensil.

My hand stumbles onto a stub of a pencil

and a crumpled piece of paper.

The swishing sound of the pendulum

increases,

and I can feel the breeze it creates.

I scribble faster trying to scrawl

a couplet containing a coherent thought.

As the blade brushes my shoulder,

Poem #1 falls

unfinished

from my hand

lost forever

before I could even begin.

2020 Poetry Marathon Hour 1 – Liar

A faint mist of vaporous emotion wettens the eyes

As he tells me about a Fernando Garcia.

Hadn’t seen him in years

Had him listed as an emergency contact.

An awful, random tragedy

That he’ll never mention again

That probably never existed.

Yet he speaks with an enthusiasm, a force

Charisma that makes me want to believe..

 

But the words don’t match the facts

Don’t even match the other, earlier words.

His actions never hear the promises he makes.

And if I call him on it?

A fresh, angrier lie.

But the intent is always the same,

Sob stories, rants, and mea culpae

all hide one wish behind them:

“Give me a pass.”

 

Can’t meet his eyes as he tells me

he’s going to see Fernando’s mother.

Slowly, sadly, I shake my head,

Grieving truth and trust.

But not Fernando.

 

 

Nazha Khalidi – Hour 1

Born in an open-air prison
Raised with no freedom under oppression
Her people calling out for liberation
They fight with cameras
Recording violations
For the world to see
To hear
Their story
She is Sahrawi.

I met her in Europe
Demanding justice from the powerful
It was her activism that got Moroccans shook-up
Arrested for streaming live on the streets
Unlawful
She is attractive, fearless, and commands a room with her voice
To them, good traits on the wrong woman

You are an interesting person
When I first heard your story
I didn’t expect to be helping you sneak around to secretly smoke
Holding up a scarf at what we thought might be a smoke alarm in the toilet
I didn’t expect to be introduced to your fiancé
The Sahrawi human rights-defending power couple
To be treated to lunch by both of you

Your greatest heroes are ordinary people too
Or perhaps, rather
Ordinary people can be great heroes too
Thank you, Nazha Khalidi

Hour 1

I know today is another moment
Another chance to wonder and
Wish and figure out what
Life might be but
I really don’t want to be
Cliche.
So how do I change that?
Find four things and focus.
One.
Two.
Three…

I need another.
Ah, there it is.
Four. The open closet door
Creaks whebever the cat
Claims it as her own.

What is happening to us?
The strange has become familiar
And my thoughts jumble from
Play to work to nothing…
Blankness.

I should have thoughts while my body rests,
Yet this think machine sits idle
Scuffing shoes on the gravel as I
Meander through unimportant tasks and
A soup of tar: thick, sticky,
A permanent stain.

Does Everyone Know Someone Famous?

I knew her when she was a kid,
remember when she and her brother won
the 4H Share the Fun competition
in McAlester,
her voice,
his upside down guitar.
They could sure put on
a show.
My three octave range
didn’t stand a chance.

It’s the show that matters.
That was my first lesson.

In high school, senior year
singing with a rock band turned country
for 4-H,
pretending to be Kitty Wells
on the Grand Ole Opry stage,
my friends and I went all the way to state,
sang in front of a crowd
at the Iba Arena.

When we got offered a summer gig,
the six of us,
Dad put his foot down.
His daughter wasn’t going to be
a country singer.

I put my foot down, too.
I wasn’t going to be a gospel singer,
the path he envisioned for me.
Our relationship was fractious,
And I somehow found the courage
to choose my own path.
I didn’t become famous,
but I still make music.
And I am still learning lessons.

One lesson has stayed with me,
Learned at the end of a show in Stillwater,
not long after her original band
died in a plane crash.
I shared
a few words with her,
saw the fatigue
understood the hard work,
the dedication,
the singular focus it takes
to be a star, still

I’d joke
or poke at a sore place in me,
that every time I sold a story,
a poem,
a feature in a magazine,
she’d made it to the pages
or the cover,
first.

But on that night,
I went home to my kiddos,
my four-year-old son,
my infant daughter,
and knew I’d made the right choice for myself,
and that she had earned,
had paid for, every accolade.

This year, in a book of Oklahoma poetry,
I’m proud to be included.
She’s there, too,
and we both deserve our place
on the page.

THE OUTCRY

The world stood still

To the smattering smear of a viral pellet
Disrupting every postulation
With images of illusion…
It grounded every dream
With a paradox of reclusion
The sweeping might of this spatial plague
Has continued to haunt and hack
Every unsuspecting tramp in its wake
You have won the battle…
We will win the war!!

THE GODDESS OF SHOWING UP – Hour 1

 

THE GODDESS OF SHOWING UP

–for Mohini Sharma

 

Mohini, our shining star

a slayer of demons long before we met

& don’t get sweet or humble like you do

I checked Wikipedia & it’s the second paragraph under your LEGENDS

 

& you might tell me I’m mistaken

that I was looking at the Goddess

I assure you

I looked at The Goddess when I saw you

I learned your name thereby I learned hers

the glory of magic, of illusion, of truth! 

beckoning us into the Maya we share

 

no way out but through

as above so below

as within so without

never broken by the truth

like the way the forge sees the value of will

 

flowing through this destructive dance

the body of our polity aching

this too is magic, is illusion, is truth

what else could a Goddess do but show up for the work?

not one single soul in this world is alone.

 

bereft, we began building equity in our hearts

we went out into the streets with cries for justice

the swell rising like our selfsame ocean of sorrow

our arctic traumas breaking away into the waters in big chunks

 

the faces of a thousand allies breaking up on the shore

the screams fading into the hushhush waves on sand

as it is our future it is our history

you sit on the bluff & your cry is like the last eagle

 

Mohini, our shining star, touch your own head

reduce the demons of our burnout to ashes

illuminate the night sky with hope.

We’re here for it.

prompt # 1

Today

procreating a human being

is a process that is magical.

In all mammals, there are only two necessities:

eat and sleep.

Watching Leanna

awake

responding to stimuli

from the startle of ingredients grinding together —

blended.

To the lullaby

of endless cars honking

sirens rushing by.

to her own vocals

expressing her needs.

hungry?

no.

Sleepy?

no.

bored?

could be.

Diaper change?

No.

The moment She looks out the window from a third floor walk up

all is at ease

watching

listening

to the world around her.

She is my own jackie O

Eleanor Roosevelt

she is my own light

guiding me

to continue to follow my dreams.

1 – 3am, 20.8911 N

Maui dark is darker than most. It is all you see is sea dark.

3am Maui dark out of these new windows

is one white light on the horizon dark,

it’s even the pigs must be sleeping dark,

even the fish aren’t swimming dark,

even mynah have nothing to chatter about dark,

even the angriest people are resting dark,

even the most worried are calm dark… maybe.

 

I’ve known landlocked darks

mountain darks

suburb darks

rural darks

city (not so) darks.

They have a close your eyesness about them,

an it’s night time so do nighttime things about them.

They have a hidingness about them

and those are good darks I suppose for some

but this dark, this Maui dark

is putter around the house dark.

It is I don’t miss you this time of morning anymore dark.

It is no one will notice if I cry right now dark.

It is oceans away from anyone else dark.

 

There’s a lot of room to stub your toe

in this kind of dark

in this Maui kind of dark.

There’s even more room

to adjust your eyes, and see.

 

Elizabeth Fellows

6/27/2020, 3am

Hour 1 – Née The Kiss

Tiny flowers crown your mane,

With love, physical or feigned?

Cradled in your love’s embrace

No portent shines from your face.

Tendrils of gold hearts flee from your gown,

Desire speaks without a sound.

Does your delicate hand hold him close?

Or pose as a statue in repose?

Locked inside the gold abyss

Nameless,

known only for

The Kiss